


Lives Apart

by Fox_the_Reaper



Category: Highlander: The Series, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Action/Adventure, Complete, Crossover, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Identity Issues, Not Really Character Death, Old Writing, Will be Edited and Reworked Eventually, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_the_Reaper/pseuds/Fox_the_Reaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Impossible as it seems, Methos is beheaded in a car crash. But his will to survive stops his Quickening from dispersing, and it goes into the nearest mortal instead. What happens when Daniel Jackson and Methos are one and the same?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Night to Remember

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No recognizable characters belong to me.
> 
> A/N: For Highlander, this is set shortly after “Indiscretions” and for Stargate, a few weeks after “Evolution.” Will contain elements from “Grace,” but should be considered AU from “Evolution.”
> 
> This was written a few years ago. Finally decided to dust it off and repost it here from my fanfiction account (DragonWolfStar for anyone interested). I haven't done much editing, so if there's anything that seems strange blame three-year-old writing.

Lives Apart

Chapter One: A Night to Remember

Methos smiled as he walked purposefully through the streets of Paris. It had been a while since he’d dropped in on Mac, and at the rate he was going, he’d be at the barge at…. oh, two in the morning. Perfect time for a visit to a friend.

Or maybe not, he frowned, cursing the bitter chill that swept the area. He probably should have driven, but it was too late now. At least the barge would be warm.

His eyes narrowed momentarily at the stranger he could see wandering aimlessly around the block, but as far as he could tell he was no threat. Perhaps a little crazy for being in this particular part of town so late (and what did that say about him?), but not anything to worry about. Lips quirked slightly as the stranger paused, looked at the sky, and then his watch in mild bemusement. Oh to be that absentmindedly naïve.

A loud screech was accompanied by bright headlights, and Methos barely had time to curse as a monstrous truck hurtled in his direction, going at least 70 on the tiny street. The impact was so sudden he barely even felt it, then a sharp pain hit his neck and he knew it was all over.

Five thousand years cut short by, for all appearances, a drunk driver.

_‘Definitely should have driven tonight.’_

In that split second between life and death, Methos felt dark amusement at the irony. He felt hatred for whoever was behind the wheel. He felt jealousy for the man standing safely on the other side of the street. He felt distinct fear at the thought of Death, blade turned against its own avatar of a thousand years. And above all, he felt the will to _live_ that had served him well over the millennia. 

The moment death hit, instinct and fear drove him, not to cling failingly to his Quickening as he had seen so many dying Immortals do, but rather to _push_ , to drive his life-essence not to disperse. Five thousand, one hundred and fifty-four years was not going to end by some ignorant mortal’s hands.

He actually felt it as his head separated from the rest of him. Then, he knew no more.

Methos would have no way of knowing what the consequences would be as his Quickening dove for the nearest container it could find. He couldn’t know that he’d kill someone that night, only for another to take his place.

0o0o0o0o0

Daniel sighed contentedly as he walked through the quiet back-streets of Paris, soaking in the scenery. It had been a long time since he’d last been able to simply experience another culture without the added pressure of diplomacy or a struggle to find a common language, and Daniel had definitely needed a break. No aliens or coworkers or guns or Honduran insurgents. Certainly no death-defying stunts from his corner. Just a nice, week-long vacation to relax and unwind.

He was almost disappointed that he’d be leaving the following morning, and had decided to take one last look around the city. After wandering around for a few hours, he’d slipped away from the mainstream attractions and had gone out to quieter areas, content to watch the flow of the city rather than take part in it.

The skyline was blurring into darkness, the final rays of sunshine dipping past the horizon. Daniel blinked in mild surprise, having paid little attention to how late it was, and realized he had to get back to his hotel before it got any later. His flight was fairly early, and he didn’t want to miss it. Glancing down at his watch, he let loose another sigh. He’d have to catch a cab if he wanted to be in before it got ridiculously late.

A sudden, loud screech tore through the silence, the sound of tires scraping against the road. Daniel spun around just in time to see a heavy truck lurch past at speeds far above the limit. It weaved drunkenly, back end spinning around before finally coming to an abrupt halt as it smashed into the side of a building, accompanied by a spray of dark fluid.

Daniel’s mind blanked in horror. “My god,” he breathed, “did it _hit_ someone?” Without thought he ran toward the collision. The driver of the truck spilled out of the vehicle, looking remarkably sober despite his lack of grace. He caught sight of the archaeologist, eyes wide, and ran. Ignoring him for now, Daniel continued on to the front of the truck.

He nearly tripped as his foot connected with something in the dark. Automatically glancing down, he sucked in a sharp breath. Swallowing bile, as he stared down at what was unmistakably somebody’s head, he realized that the force of the crash must of torn the victim’s head clean off.

Daniel stumbled back a step, blood squelching under his boot.

And then the lightning started.

A bright flash lit the darkened, storm-less sky, blue arcs of energy streaking from seemingly out of nowhere. Enormous blasts of lightning struck hard at the ground around the truck, throwing up debris as it hit with enough force to damage the road. Finally, with a shuddering intensity it blazed up into the air before arcing powerfully back down. Back at _him_. Frozen out of fear, surprise, and awe, Daniel couldn’t move out of the way in time.

After a brief instant of blinding pain, darkness claimed him.

0o0o0o0o0

Daniel had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, or why. He simply woke, staring up at a sky blackened and starless from light pollution. Hazily he checked his watch, only to realize that it had been fried.

What had he been doing?

He remembered something about going to see Mac. Yes, that was it. He hadn’t bothered the Highlander in a while, and MacLeod was always good for a bit of amusement, even if Methos tended to get sucked into some crazy scheme or another while –

Wait. No, no, he didn’t know a MacLeod. He didn’t know a Methos (what a strange name… definitely not French.) He was in France on vacation, and he would be heading back to the SGC the day after tomorrow. Sam would be coming home with the _Prometheus_ soon, and Jack was probably tearing his hair out of worry for the both of them. Teal’c would be trying to push through his requests for lodging outside the SGC, and – 

No, stop. Methos didn’t know any Samantha Carter, Jack O’Neill, and definitely no Teal’c. No Daniel Jacksons in this lifetime either. There was no such thing as the SGC, and the pyramids hadn’t been built by aliens. _Prometheus_ was from Greek mythology, not a spaceship.

He groaned and clutched his head in abject misery, pains from a vicious headache making themselves known with a vengeance. Why did he feel like he’d just taken a bad Quickening? But what was a Quickening? Cursing fluidly in over forty languages, Daniel backed into an empty building. He turned, staring at his reflection, barely visible in the darkened window. Light brown hair, strong features. Familiar, but not. One blue eye, one hazel…

Daniel had blue eyes. Methos had hazel. 

This wasn’t working. He needed help. He could go to Mac or Joe, maybe. But no, they wouldn’t recognize him would they? He looked the most like Daniel. But his friends were an ocean away and, if he were being honest, probably paranoid enough that his behavior, his appearance, would be blamed on some sort of malevolent alien. No, he couldn’t go to them either.

Distantly, he could hear sirens. Had someone finally called the police? Shaking his head in a poor attempt to clear it, Daniel started away. He couldn’t be found here, not like this. Pausing, Methos spun back around. Running to the truck, he ducked under it, barely flinching at the sight of his own body. Hastily grabbing his miraculously intact Ivanhoe from where it had been flung, Daniel turned and fled.

0o0o0o0o0

When Joe turned on the news the next day he couldn’t contain his shocked gasp. The glass he had been absently cleaning slipped from his fingers, shattering on the ground. Amy, who had been visiting him in semi-regular hesitance after the incident with Walker, looked up from the table she was seated at.

“What is it?” she asked, but cut herself off as she took in the news broadcast. Adam Pierson, recently discovered as the Immortal Methos, and the man who had saved her life, was dead.

Joe stared at the picture splashed across the screen, and he wondered briefly how they’d gotten ahold of it. There were very few visual references to the Old Man, something he’d been meticulous in ensuring. But there he was, plastered on the news.

“There’s no way,” he heard Amy say. “He’s just getting a fresh start, isn’t he?”

But then the newscaster announced, in more detail than Joe had ever wanted to hear, “Dr. Pierson was found decapitated in in an car crash just outside of – ”

He sat heavily, then frowned. “This couldn’t have been an accident,” he said, listening as the announcer continued with, “ – police are looking for Harold Cook, who is the owner of the vehicle, and this man, who was also seen, unconscious, at the scene, for questioning.” A photograph and a sketch both appeared on the screen. Joe stared hard, memorizing the details of both people, and noting that nothing was mentioned about a sword. Something that unusual would normally have been mentioned, so either Methos hadn’t had it on him (which was as likely as him turning to sainthood), or someone had taken it. There weren’t many who would know to do so.

Picking up his phone, he hurriedly dialed Mac’s number. “Mac, turn on the damn TV,” he growled. Amy, behind him, was quiet. She was a Watcher, but she also knew she owed him one. She wouldn’t say anything. The Old Man might have been a pain in the ass, but he’d also been a good friend. 

Joe was sure Mac felt the same way. Either way, whoever had taken the Old Man’s head wasn’t likely to keep his much longer.

Staring at the pictures on the screen, Joe knew exactly where to start, too.

0o0o0o0o0

It was a miracle, Daniel mused, that he’d made it onto his flight that morning. First, getting his Ivanhoe through customs had been a nightmare, and only the sheer luck of owning a license to transport such things (he was an archaeologist, and had routinely carried awkward things with him after all… nor was it the first antique sword he’d flown somewhere) that had saved him from being unable to leave at all.

Second, he’d had some trouble even remembering he was supposed to be leaving Paris the next day, confusion at the situation and his own identity rearing its ugly head.

Third, he’d been stopped twice for his similarity to the sketch produced on the news. He’d managed to pass it off as coincidence both times, but the scrutiny had still been rather uncomfortable. And he supposed he should count himself lucky that his eyes hadn’t drawn any undue attention.

He had never been fond of attention, either as Methos or as Daniel.

The long hours of sleep he’d gotten on his flights to Colorado had helped to clear his head somewhat, but he was still horribly confused. How had this happened? He was Daniel Jackson, member of the SGC. But he was also Methos, living legend among Immortals. Well, sort of living, at any rate.

Daniel closed his eyes and leaned back in his couch in an attempt to stave off the oncoming headache. He remembered nearly tripping over his own head – something that was extremely disturbing. He also remembered feeling his head flying off, which was just as bad. Methos had pushed his Quickening, and Daniel had caught it.

Methos remembered parents in long-ago Egypt, not even named as such when he’d been found. Daniel still thought of Claire and Melburn Jackson and, strangely enough, also being born in Egypt, albeit distinctly more modern. Methos learned ancient languages when they were still in mainstream use. Daniel studied them from dusty books and crumbling buildings. They both recalled growing older and dying. Methos lived as a slave, then a scholar, a warrior, a murderer, a lover, a doctor… so many different lives. Daniel had struggled through foster care, spent time as both student and teacher, recalled the vivid humiliation when his theories were twisted and mocked, loved and had a family, and finally went to the SGC – one small blip in time in comparison, but every bit as vibrant and important.

He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose as his head started to pound, images of a thousand lifetimes swirling behind his eyes. It was difficult enough keeping _Daniel_ and _Methos_ straight, but then odd bits of knowledge, memories he knew were cropping up from the mass of Quickenings he’d taken over the millennia, would pop up and he’d be left confused and wondering until he managed to fit it into the proper context. And then one of Methos’ many aliases would also shove its way into his mind, and the process would start all over again.

Giving a disgusted sigh he turned in for the night. Hopefully things would make more sense in the morning.

0o0o0o0o0

As it turned out, they didn’t really. Daniel had gotten to work that morning and sat down at his desk, staring blearily through hastily bought color-contacts at unfinished translations of languages that should have taken quite a bit of time to decipher. Instead he had looked at them, recognized the base of the languages, and had not once needed to reference a book. It all seemed oddly simple, even though dialects and strange amalgamations of various languages were unlike any he had encountered on Earth.

Things were… different. He still enjoyed his work, was fascinated by the cultural and historical records he unearthed with each artifact. But nearly everything he looked at could be connected in some way to a past he both had and hadn’t lived. A papyrus scroll reminded him of his days as Pharaoh. Video recordings taken of a Romanesque village threw him back to his days as a gladiator slave.

It made Methos edgy, and he was already nervous simply because he was around military personnel and some of the most intelligent, highly observant people in the world. If he was caught here, and the NID got wind of it… he didn’t want to think of the consequences.

Pushing those thoughts away, he went back to his work, starting on a small Asgard device. The safest things he had to translate were the Asgard and Ancient items as, though the base Norse and Latin were similar, the writing and culture behind the words were so vastly different from anything Methos had experienced that he never found himself lost in memory when he worked on them. He spent several hours like that, completing far more than he usually did in the same amount of time.

Jack wandered in and raised a questioning eyebrow at both the speed and annoyed ferocity with which he was attacking his workload.

“Making up for lost time?” he asked, only half joking.

Daniel spared him a glance and hummed noncommittally, fully focused on the device in front of him.

“You do realize that will still be there for you to do later, right?”

“Yes,” he replied drily, “and I’ll probably still be around for you to annoy later, too. As in, when I’m _not_ busy.” He shot the colonel a pointed look, very deliberately going back to the device.

Jack blinked in surprise. “Uh, yeah, actually I wanted to inform you that you’re coming out with me and T tonight. Guys’ night out while Carter’s not around to be offended.”

“Only if you’re supplying the beer,” he quipped absently, with none of his usual protests. He didn’t realize how out of character it was until Jack threw him a strange look. Daniel didn’t like beer.

Methos loved it, drank it like water and, living in ancient Egypt, had quite literally grown up on the drink. And if he could worm his way into drinking copious amounts of it for free, well, so much the better.

Methos rolled his eyes. “I’m not paying for you to drink this time,” he covered. After all, Daniel didn’t drink much and Teal’c didn’t drink at all. Last time they’d had a team night Sam and Jack had basically guzzled down a significant portion of his paycheck. While the aftermath had been amusing, he wished it hadn’t been his money they’d gotten smashed on.

“Uh huh,” Jack smirked. “Pizza or Chinese?”

“Pizza,” he settled on, warily.

“Great. I’ll bring the beer, you get the food.”

Daniel groaned. Feeding three grown men that could eat like horses wasn’t much better.

0o0o0o0o0

Jack watched Daniel carefully the moment he stepped through the door, pizza boxes in hand. The dry retorts and strange comments hadn’t made a reappearance since their conversation in the linguist’s office, but every interaction afterward had seemed oddly forced, as though he was trying especially hard to act normally. 

Which meant that something was wrong.

“Pizza,” Daniel said lazily, dropping the boxes on the coffee table. His lips were quirked in a smile, but overall he looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes and his shoulders drooped slightly in an unfamiliar slouch.

“Beer,” was what Jack said in reply rather than voice his concern. He lifted a pair of bottles held loosely in one hand.

The linguist actually seemed to brighten a little at the proffered drink and took one, cracking it open and absently tossing the cap on the table. Jack had to resist raising an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic lack of decorum. Teal’c didn’t bother.

“What’s the movie?” Daniel asked falling gracelessly onto the couch, feet propped on the table. He took a deep swallow of his drink.

Jack smirked. “I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry.”

Daniel choked on his beer, shooting a quick glance at Teal’c. The Jaffa merely quirked his eyebrow in a bemused fashion.

“Is not incest taboo among your people?” Jack grinned. Daniel was no help whatsoever, eyeing the screen in disappointment as a pair of gorgeous twins barely stopped before giving each other some tongue.

“Depends really,” he drawled. “After all, twins are incredibly sexy, and do you have any idea how competitive sisters can be in – ”

“Daniel!” Jack could not believe what he was hearing.

The archaeologist shrugged innocently. “I was going to say ‘in matters of love,’” he lied blithely.

It didn’t get much better from there. Jack was more inclined to think the movie incredibly funny, while Teal’c took it a little too seriously; unable to understand why Chuck could not be a beneficiary in the first place. And Daniel… well, “What, you’ve never slept with another man before?” he’d asked frankly. 

Teal’c shot him a Look. “I have not,” he replied simply. Jack was too busy trying to clear his windpipe of alcohol to answer.

0o0o0o0o0

After Daniel left his house that night, Jack cast a thoughtful look at Teal’c. “Hey, T,” he asked, “is it just me or was Daniel acting a little… weird… today? I mean, weirder than usual.”

Teal’c’s brow rose. “I have indeed noticed that he was behaving in a manner most unlike himself.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he muttered, then added, more loudly, “Not to mention how much beer he drank tonight. I was afraid he was gonna poison himself or something.”

“Perhaps he is having and ‘off-night,’ as you put it,” Teal’c suggested.

Jack doubted it. “Yeah, maybe,” he shrugged. “Night, T.”

Teal’c nodded and headed toward the guest room.

Jack would just have to keep an eye on him for a while. After all, if something was up with Daniel, he wasn’t likely to tell them. He’d just have to keep figure it out on his own. 

0o0o0o0o0

Methos cursed himself as he got ready for bed that night. He was a better actor than that; both sides of him were far too used to keeping their secrets to be anything but consummate performers. But there he was, making amateurish mistakes. He’d acted more like Adam Pierson than Daniel Jackson.

_‘In front of people I shouldn’t have to act for,’_ he thought wearily.

Eyes narrowing dangerously, Methos clenched his toothbrush in a white-knuckled grip. Why was he having such a difficult time with this? It was like he’d just taken a particularly unsettling Quickening, and the personality aspects hadn’t settled yet. Maybe that was it. After all, he’d basically taken a Quickening that night hadn’t he?

He shook his head, giving up on his nightly ablutions. What he needed was a good workout to calm his mind and tire him out. Making his way through his cluttered living room, he picked up his Ivanhoe and went out to the backyard. It was small, but there was enough space to practice.

Daniel ran a finger along the edge of the blade, drawing blood. He was almost surprised when it healed with a bright blue spark. But maybe he shouldn’t have been.

Daniel hadn’t been Immortal, he mused, sliding into a familiar stance. Methos was. He had also been a master swordsman, he thought, frowning as muscles awkwardly worked in ways they simply weren’t used to. That would need to be fixed, preferably before he ran into another Immortal.

Driving the blade into a more powerful thrust than he intended, Methos scowled. Or perhaps Daniel did, but who would notice?

Who was he, really?


	2. Survival Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter references both “Grace” and “Spirits” from Stargate.

Lives Apart

Chapter Two: Survival Instinct

The next couple of weeks were hard for all of SG-1 when Sam returned from the _Prometheus_ battered and tired. The knowledge that she had spent all of that time without any support from them was difficult to digest. They were always there for each other, that’s just how it was.

Aside from that, Methos had sensed the presence of another Immortal in Colorado Springs more than once. Each time the presence barely flickered in and out of sensing range before vanishing entirely. He in no way felt prepared to face a challenge, not when his swordsmanship was still so stiff. 

Jack had also claimed that there had been a hit on his name, meaning that someone was looking up his personal information. Methos prayed that it wasn’t the Immortal he had been feeling, but with the way his luck ran a better bet would be to just pack up and leave. Not something he could do easily with the job he had. The military had too many resources, and he had died too many times for them to accept a vanishing act so easily.

And he still had to maintain his façade of normalcy. Even with Sam still in the infirmary, it was difficult to do so. SG-1 was too close to him, and every one of them knew something was up. Daniel was reasonably sure that they were close to forcing an MRI on him to make sure he wasn’t infected by a Goa’uld.

It was for these reasons that Daniel found his stress levels rising to severe heights, with all the headaches to accompany them. None of that helped his already shaky deception, and it was starting to affect his work, too.

Something had to give.

So when he went home for the evening he was almost relieved when the Immortal presence showed up on his doorstep, simply because he wanted at least one stressor out of the way. Almost, because he still wasn’t ready for a challenge.

Almost, because a moment later he realized he could recognize the buzz, and there was only one person he could do that with. Only one person he’d shared a double Quickening with.

“You son of a bitch!” was accompanied by steel scraping against its sheath.

“Hello, MacLeod.”

0o0o0o0o0

MacLeod had always believed in being direct in whatever confrontations may come his way. Beating around the bush served no purpose but to drag things out, so when he looked into the records of Harold Cook and Daniel Jackson and found that one had a rather suspicious number of death certificates to his name, he knew who to look toward first. Although he had to admit, he’d only found out the latter’s name by accident, when an article of a discredited archeologist had come up by chance at a museum in New York (which Mac wouldn’t have gone to if he could have held off the meeting with the curator – it was fortunate he hadn’t). The picture’s resemblance to the sketch on the news had been uncanny. 

Anything in Jackson’s personal details had been a bit of a challenge to access, but once Amanda heard what was going on she put her hacking skills to good use. Even so, a great deal of information had simply been missing, something else that Mac found rather telling.

Newbies tended to leave out one or two too many details when they were creating identities, and with this guy’s insistence on returning to “Daniel Jackson” after every “death,” he was most likely new to the Game. The only thing Mac couldn’t figure out was how the Air Force had completely missed it. There were only so many times one could mysteriously turn up after a supposed death, after all.

In any case, the next step had been to get to Colorado Springs. Jackson’s records hadn’t given a more specific address than that, so Mac resorted to staking out the place. After a few times of almost being close enough to see him – barely enough to sense him – Mac was finally able to track him back to his house. The following evening he hovered around the doorstep, and when Jackson wandered home, with the gall to look completely unsurprised at his presence, he found himself unable to reign in his temper.

“You son of a bitch!” he spat. It was one thing for Methos to lose his head in a fair challenge, but to be run down by a newbie and his mortal partner? It was enough for Mac to draw his sword.

“Hello, MacLeod,” the man said softly, but the accent was bitingly familiar. His hand twitched at the hilt of his katana. Had the Old Man’s Quickening completely overwhelmed the newbie’s? He doubted it. It was far more likely that Jackson was trying to put him off guard.

“How do ye know my name?” he asked gruffly, unwilling to do anything further without discovering whether this was Methos or not.

“Even if you didn’t have such a reputation amongst Immortals I would know your buzz anywhere. If you were paying any attention at all you’d know mine,” the man, Jackson (Methos?) mocked gently.

He was right. He could feel Methos’ distinctive presence. His sword dropped a fraction. “Methos?” he questioned confusedly. Even if Methos’ personality had overtaken the other’s, he’d still be sensing Jackson, not him.

“Not really,” the man replied, weariness lacing his tone. His accent had noticeably switched back to American.

Mac’s eyes narrowed, and the grip on his sword tightened. “Daniel Jackson, then?”

The man reached up, removing his glasses and then a pair of contact lenses underneath. One blue eye and one hazel stared up at him. “Not him either.”

“Then who are you?” Mac asked, feeling rather out of his depth. The clipping with Jackson’s picture hadn’t been in color, but he’d bet anything that both the man’s eyes had been blue. The dark hazel was just too distinctively _Methos_.

“Both. Neither. Look,” Jackson said, raising a hand to forestall any more questions, “why don’t you come inside? I’ll try to explain, but I can’t make any promises. I’m not entirely clear on what’s happened, myself.”

Warily, Mac nodded and sheathed his blade, allowing Jackson to lead him inside.

The house was cluttered, far removed from Methos’ meticulously neat apartments. Boxes were stacked haphazardly in corners around the living room, and books lay unsorted on shelves and the small coffee table. Various artifacts littered any flat surface unoccupied by the books, and several swords hung artistically on the wall, from which the missing Ivanhoe was noticeably absent. A baby grand piano stood in one corner.

“Sorry,” Jackson apologized. Methos never apologized. “I only moved in a couple of months ago. I’ve been pretty busy since then so it’s still a mess. Er, would you like a drink?” he offered awkwardly.

Mac shook his head. “No, thank-you,” he replied stiffly.

Jackson nodded and sat down. He got right to the point. “I suppose the first thing you should know is that, before the night I took my… Methos’ Quickening, I wasn’t Immortal. I wasn’t a pre-Immortal, either. Daniel Jackson was just an ordinary man on vacation. But then I was hit – Methos was hit, sorry, and I – he – manipulated his Quickening somehow. It went into _me_. I didn’t want to die, Mac, I still don’t, but, by the gods! I can’t…” he trailed off, and MacLeod stared at him in complete astonishment. What he could gather through the stuttered explanation sounded totally unlikely; impossible.

Jackson sighed and burrowed his head in his hands. “I mean, I am Daniel Jackson. I remember being him, his childhood. It’s my body. But I also remember Methos, in far more clarity than a normal Quickening. The memories are _mine_ , not someone whose head I just took. I am him too.”

There was silence for a long moment, neither of them knowing what to say.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” he finished quietly.

Mac could hear the honest desperation in his voice, but wasn’t sure whether he could believe the man or not. It was so far-fetched…

 _‘No more so than a Dark Quickening,’_ he thought absently. _‘Not more than Ahriman…’_

He winced.

“Listen, I know this sounds crazy but – ”

“I believe you,” Mac interrupted, not entirely sure that was true or not. Jackson started in surprise. “I believe you,” he repeated, not sure if he could help, but knowing he would try anyway.

Mac decided to take a leap of faith. If he was wrong, well, he’d be on guard. If not… if not, he had no idea. But, this was _Methos_. The eldest; impossible in his own right and stubborn as a mule.

If anyone could pull off such a backwards, messed up stunt, it would be him.

0o0o0o0o0

Daniel would have felt guilty if it weren’t for the fact that he was being entirely honest. Still, he knew exactly how to tug on overgrown boy scouts’ heartstrings, and behaving like Daniel when he was desperate certainly would. Methos could be charismatic, but Daniel had a natural talent in connecting with people. It was what made him so successful on a first contact team.

Combined with Methos’ deviousness, it had the potential to be downright dangerous.

So, despite the fact that every word was true, the way he’d said it had been geared to drag out Mac’s sympathy. He could _not_ let Mac challenge him, especially now when he was positive that he’d lose. Not when Daniel’s feelings stated quite plainly that it would be better to die himself than to take the head of a friend. Methos… was not willing to die yet, not even for Mac.

Survival at almost any cost combined with the galaxy’s martyr. It was definitely one headache he never thought he’d have.

Daniel was mortified to feel the sting of tears building behind his eyes. He really hadn’t thought this was all getting to him so much, but at the same time he was really, really sick of things screwing with his mind. Machello’s devices, Ancients, minds trapped in cryogenic storage, just to name a few.

Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, Methos became sharply aware of the deepening silence. Mac was sitting awkwardly on the edge of the coffee table, clearly unsure what to say or do. Daniel didn’t really know either.

“Um,” he began tentatively, “you could stay here for a while if you want. I won’t… I probably won’t be in much, but after all the times I’ve mooched off of you…” he grinned slightly. Mac was undoubtedly suspicious, but hopefully showing he had nothing to hide would allay those suspicions somewhat.

Except he did. Whoops. Mildly alarmed, Daniel’s eyes swept the room for any classified materials he was working on. He could trust Mac, but only as far as he could trust Joe. And the military wouldn’t care about how trustworthy either of them were.

“No, that’s alright,” Mac replied unsurely. “I’ll give you the number of my hotel. You, er, remember my cell number?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, relieved.

That settled, Daniel showed him out. He didn’t really know how to treat Mac at all. He was a friend, and he understood Methos in ways he had allowed very few to. But Daniel had never known him. And now he was obligated to speak to the man on what would most likely be a semi-regular basis until his little identity crisis could be sorted out.

Closing his eyes in resignation, Methos unearthed his Ivanhoe from its hiding place. An hour or two of practice might help clear his head and calm him down.

0o0o0o0o0

The following morning provided a welcome distraction to his troubles as Daniel got ready for SG-1’s next mission. P3X-759 had shown only signs of plant and small animal life, but further readings taken had found large deposits of trinium. The metal, while not as useful or powerful as naquadah, would still be helpful in weapons manufacture, amongst other things. SG-1 would just be surveying the site before mining operations could get underway.

Methos rather thought the colonel had requested an easy mission, both so Sam could take it easy and because he was still aware of the linguist’s strange behavior. Despite that, he couldn’t help but feel wary. Since when did any of SG-1’s missions, easy or no, ever go as planned?

Shrugging internally, he supposed it didn’t matter. He was already suited up to go.

The final chevron locked into place, the familiar explosion of ‘water’ bursting out of the ‘gate and settling into the event horizon. Without hesitation, the four members of SGC’s flagship team stepped through.

The world they walked out on was lush and green, brightly colored flowers weaving their way around tall trees. Golden sunlight filtered in through the branches onto the needle-strewn ground below.

“Okay, campers, first dig-site is about four kliks that-a-way,” Jack said, waving his hand due east. “We go, scout, and camp for the night. First thing in the morning we head to the second site and then we’re on our way home.”

The rest of the team nodded their assent, and the first mile or so passed in relative peace, Sam and Daniel talking quietly about the uses of trinium. Jack was simply relieved that he couldn’t see any totem poles or ravens. It wasn’t until they were almost to the first site that Teal’c realized there was something wrong. He held up a fist and immediately everyone else halted.

They waited in silence for almost a full minute before Teal’c intoned, “It is too quiet.”

Daniel blinked, casting his gaze through the expanse of trees growing on the mountainside. “He’s right. I don’t hear any of the animal life the UAV picked up. Shouldn’t there at least be birds?” What had scared them off? He shifted slightly, acutely missing the weight of his Ivanhoe at his side. His hand dropped to the 9mm holstered at his leg.

Sam looked up at the sky as it was just starting to darken. “Looks like the best thing to do for now would be to just keep an eye out, get to the site, and set up camp,” she commented.

“So let’s move,” Jack agreed. 

A barest rustle was all the warning they got. Six darts whistled through the trees, five of them finding their mark. Daniel hissed at the sharp sting in his neck, hand automatically reaching up to pull out the weapon. His vision wavered, and the last thing he saw was Teal’c ripping out two darts of his own before everything went black.

0o0o0o0o0

Jack winced as he sat up. Glancing over, he saw the rest of his teammates were already awake. “Boy doesn’t _this_ seem familiar,” he snarked, knowing of the eerily similar situation at the last trinium mine the rest of his team had been to. They’d lucked out; the natives had been mostly friendly. He wasn’t going to count on that a second time.

Looking around, he could already tell these aliens weren’t going to be as hospitable. Instead of a nice, relatively comfortable room, he would guess that they were somewhere underground. Rough stone walls and ceiling curved up in a semi-circular shape, metal torches adorning the walls with bright violet flame.

 _‘Explains why the UAV didn’t pick these guys up,’_ he thought blandly, staring through metal bars at the cave-like structure.

Hearing a soft clink as he moved, Jack glanced down. Manacles encircled his wrists, a length of chain connecting them to the wall. He glared. _‘Oh yeah, definitely not as nice.’_

Daniel had caught his irritated glance and tossed a wry smile at him, waving his shackled hands mockingly in Jack’s direction. The chains rattled annoyingly loudly. “Yeah, it’s pretty typical, huh?”

Jack scowled.

Rolling her eyes, Sam reported, “We’ve been unconscious for at least a day and they’ve taken all our equipment, sir. Unless someone has any bobby pins it looks like were stuck here until someone comes for us.” She didn’t say that their scheduled check in wasn’t for another day at least. No help would be coming from the SGC.

“Nice to know we can be defeated by the simple locks as well as the force fields,” he quipped sarcastically. Then he frowned. “Wait, you know how to pick locks?” He did too, but at least he had a reason for it.

Both Daniel and Sam smirked at that. Jack wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.

The sound of footsteps made the four of them look up. A pale grey humanoid with a wiry figure unlocked the cell with a heavy looking key. Her silver hair trailed down a soft brown dress, braided with gold beads. Three oval eyes blinked from her face, each a solid crimson. She knelt elegantly off to the side, out of the way of the second figure, identical save for his obvious masculinity. Brown and green leather armor covered his form, and he stood powerfully confident in contrast to the subservient female. He carried himself as though he were in charge, and Jack could only assume that he was.

She murmured something in a strange language and Jack saw Daniel tilt his head in interest from the corner of his eye. “They seem to be at about medieval level technologically,” he murmured, listening intently. “And their clothes bear some resemblance to early European styles...

The male replied sharply before turning to the prisoners. He barked out something in the foreign tongue, clearly demanding answers that Jack had no way to provide.

Frowning, the archaeologist said something loudly in a foreign language, close to the one the aliens had spoken.

Red eyes narrowed and Jack watched the linguist nervously. “Daniel? Care to explain?” he asked after the man snapped out another phrase, followed shortly by what sounded like a question.

“It’s a derivative of Thracian,” he told Jack distractedly.

 _‘Because that explains so much.’_ “Daniel…”

The archaeologist had gone a little pale. He turned to Teal’c. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to use a sword, would you?” Teal’c shook his head. Jack knew that, while the Jaffa was experienced in many forms of combat, they were primarily for hand-to-hand and staff fighting.

The alien repeated his earlier question.

Daniel’s hesitation was obvious before he nodded his assent, pointing sharply at himself. What the hell had he just agreed to?

The male returned the gesture, turning to the woman and giving her an order. She rose from her subdued position and left, returning only minutes later with six guards.

They walked inside the cell and unlocked the manacles, keeping firm grips on each member of SG-1. As they were marched down several corridors, Daniel hastily explained what had just taken place.

“Thirdan says we trespassed on his territory,” he said. “I told him it was a misunderstanding but apparently their laws are very strict here – ignorance is no excuse.”

“So why are we leaving?” Jack asked heatedly. “They’re not gonna execute us are they?” Because that would be just their kind of luck.

Daniel shook his head. “Er, no. He said that we could prove ourselves through Trial by Combat. Specifically, swordsmanship. One for each of us. Ironic, isn’t it?” he murmured the last to himself, though they all heard it anyway. Jack didn’t know what to make of it, but then he remembered how insistently Daniel had pointed at himself and it didn’t matter anymore.

Sam and Teal’c looked just as alarmed as Jack felt. “Wait a minute. You didn’t–”

“Don’t worry Jack,” he said with confidence the colonel didn’t think he rightly possessed. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Daniel! You are going to get yourself killed!”

The twisted smile Daniel gave him scared him more than a little. “Death is an old friend, Jack,” he said softly. “We won’t let you down.”

Before anything more could be said, Jack, Sam, and Teal’c were led one way, Daniel another.

It wasn’t long before the pathway opened up into a huge cavern, easily the size of a stadium. Actually, that was exactly what it was. The guards led them to the back of the stands (benches carved from the natural stone of the cave), where they stood behind spectators that were slowly filing inside. 

Down in the arena, three rather bulky aliens stood, each equipped with either chainmail or leather, a shield, and obviously sharp longswords. A fourth walked out and took his place by their side. He bore no shield, instead wielding a heavy, two-handed blade.

About ten minutes later, Daniel himself walked to the other side of the arena with much the same equipment. Startled hisses came from the crowd of alien spectators, along with what were recognizably jeers.

The rest of SG-1 couldn’t bring themselves to say anything. Daniel, fighting with a sword? Against obviously experienced opponents no less.

He was going to die, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.


	3. Uncertain Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’d just like to point out that Methos recovered from death-by-bullet-to-the-heart in about five seconds in “Indiscretions.” In other words, he heals freaking fast.

Lives Apart

Chapter Three: Uncertain Truths

“Mac, honey,” Amanda said, unusual seriousness lacing her tone, “I’m sorry but I think this Jackson guy duped you.” She and Joe had flown in; Joe because he was Watching Mac, Amanda because she was Methos’ friend as well. “He’s probably half-way around the world by now.”

Joe seemed to agree.

“Look,” Mac insisted, “you weren’t there when he talked to me. I am absolutely positive he was being sincere. Besides, he said he wasn’t home often; he’s probably away for work. He’ll be back soon.” Mac wasn’t entirely sure where his faith was coming from, but by now he was sure every word he’d said was true. The problem was neither Joe nor Amanda believed him.

“Mac, there are absolutely no records of anything like this ever happening before. It just sounds so, eh…” Joe trailed off.

“Ludicrous?” Amanda chimed in.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Mac scowled.

Amanda took pity on him. “We’ll give it another couple of days. If he doesn’t show by then we’ll try something else,” she said, stepping off the porch of the house he’d tracked Jackson to only a day prior. In all likelihood he really had given Mac the slip, but for some reason the Scot couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it. Even if he were the Old Man it was something he would have done.

So why was Mac so sure he hadn’t?

“I wish it were true too, you know,” Joe said, “but odds are he’s just… playing you for a fool. But believe me, I sure as hell wish the Old Man was here right now. He was my friend too, you know.”

Was that it? Was it just because he was clinging to the vain hope that there was a way out? That yet another friend hadn’t died this decade?

He shook his head. Whether or not that was the truth didn’t matter anymore. He was committed to seeing this through.

That didn’t stop him from praying he was right.

0o0o0o0o0

Methos tested the balance and weight of the sword he had been given, finding that Thirdan had been true to his word. The workmanship was excellent; it was a high-quality blade. It was as fair as Thirdan was willing to be.

Hopefully it would even the odds a fraction. Even so, his opponents would have trained for this sort of thing for a long time. No matter how long Methos had trained, Daniel’s body was still unaccustomed to swordsmanship. It wasn’t an easy, fluid instinct like it had been for thousands of years. His recent practices had helped somewhat, but he was still stiff by comparison.

And he was going at it four-on-one. 

How much of this latest idiocy was Daniel’s influence? How much was Mac’s? It wasn’t a thought he dwelled too much on. There were more important things to worry about.

As he stepped onto the stone floor of the arena, Daniel took stock of his opponents. Each carried their blades with the ease of experience, and the fourth alien looked incredibly strong despite his wiry form. Hopefully the similar weight of his sword to those found on Earth meant the aliens’ levels of strength would also be close to the same.

He slid into a defensive stance that he hoped would give him an edge, a single-handed grip on his sword, shield raised. This particular form lent to ease in deflecting with both the blade and the shield, but he knew it wouldn’t hold out long. With four opponents he needed to dodge more than he blocked – the instant he stopped moving would be the moment of his death.

A blaring horn signaled the start of the Trial.

The opening salvo happened much as he thought it would; with multiple opponents with the clear upper-hand they were cocky, rushing in with just enough lack of care for him to take advantage of. He deflected one blow with his sword, blocking another with his shield at the same time. A quick twist knocked a longsword from an alien’s grip. A hasty counter-strike and first blood was his.

Fast reflexes saved the alien from getting its throat slit. It was still a powerful slice at his collarbone. First blood went to Methos.

More wary now two of the aliens circled around, trying to get at his back. One of the two initial attackers moved smoothly in front of the other, allowing his partner to recover and grab his blade. Methos himself used the time to position his back toward the wall, close enough that the aliens wouldn’t be able to effectively surround him but far enough that he wasn’t sacrificing much maneuverability.

Three of the aliens rushed in, the one with the two-handed claymore unexpectedly hanging back. Methos cursed, ducking under one of the aliens’ guards. It left his back open but allowed him to effectively gut his opponent. In the same instant one died another hit his unprotected back, the borrowed leather cuirass unable to block much of the damage.

Shocked gasps sounded through the stadium at both the death of one of their own and the now visible sparks of Quickening as it repaired the damage done to him. It would take another minute or so to be completely healed but already the wound hurt significantly less.

The other two attackers had backed off in fear or surprise and the second’s hesitation allowed Methos to dart in and strike at the already injured alien. This time his strike didn’t miss. Purple blood sprayed as an artery was severed.

The alien with the claymore finally struck, swinging down with enough power that Methos’ buckler was thrown off when he blocked the vicious swing. Stunned, he didn’t have time to block the second blade aimed at his abdomen.

He felt it pierce his body, with only a split second to feel both worry and smug satisfaction that he’d managed to keep his head before he died.

0o0o0o0o0

Jack stared in blatant astonishment as his friend whirled and struck with obvious expertise, sword lashing out in a silver blur. He hadn’t lied earlier, then. He really did know what he was doing.

The colonel winced when an alien finally managed to hit the archaeologist, then gaped when lightning sparked from the injury. Seconds later, he could literally see it closing. What the hell?

But even with super healing technology (or whatever the hell that had been) four-on-one were still difficult odds to beat. Even as the opponents were whittled down to two, Jack saw that Daniel’s hasty second kill was a mistake. The fourth alien had darted in while he was occupied, swinging with such force that Daniel’s shield had gone flying. He couldn’t recover before other remaining alien thrust its blade into his unprotected gut.

Blue eyes flew wide, flickering with a vague emotion Jack couldn’t quite interpret. Then they glazed over as his best friend collapsed onto the stone floor, unmistakably dead.

He heard Sam’s sharp inhale, saw Teal’c’s expression close off even more from the corner of his eye. Scattered cheers started up in the stadium, and he barely heard what was definitely a smug claim of victory.

“Jack, _look_ ,” Sam breathed.

Lightning. Blue sparks fluttered along Daniel’s abdomen and the cheering stuttered to a halt as everyone stopped, hardly daring to breathe at the spectacle below. Ten seconds passed, then twenty. Almost a full minute passed then blue eyes snapped open with a shuddering gasp. Daniel scrambled to his feet, hand grasping at the still-closing wound. His other firmly held his sword.

Dead silence gripped the amazed audience, lasting only until Daniel staggered out a startlingly quick swipe at one of the combatants. Three down, and the crowd screamed in outrage.

The fourth alien backed away, terror obvious in his body language. Daniel lowered the blade slightly, gazing out at the one he’d spoken to earlier… Theoden or Todo or something. He hissed out a demand and the alien slowly rose from his seat. A few words and the crowed hushed in expectation. Daniel continued, this time switching back and forth between English and whatever the aliens spoke, purely for SG-1’s benefit.

A string of gibberish followed by, “I am not a god. But neither can you kill me!”

“Therefore in this Trial we are victorious.”

“Allow us to leave unharmed, and no harm shall come to you.” A clear threat, which probably served SG-1 well in this case, but since when had that ever mattered to Daniel? He always practiced diplomacy first, _always_.

No one stopped him as he exited the arena, and no one followed when the team left the tunnels.

Out in the sun, violet and red blood showed plainly all over the linguist’s clothes, flecks of it spattering his skin. He clutched the sword he’d kept like a lifeline. All four walked in silence as they got their bearings and headed toward the ‘gate. Finally, Daniel spoke.

“Jack,” he said firmly, “I was given an alien device to make the Trial fair. It healed me but broke during the fight. And I didn’t die.”

Jack almost pointed out the absurdity of the lie, especially since he _knew_ the aliens had given him no such thing, when he realized what the linguist was doing. His expression tightened.

“Give me one good reason to lie for you.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed and he replied steadily. “Because I saved your life. Because you wouldn’t wish the NID to come after me, which is exactly what would happen if the truth were put into the report.” He paused, then added, “Because if you don’t, I will take the next ‘gate out of dodge.”

Jack stopped in his tracks. “Do I even know you? Because you sure as hell couldn’t do that, any of it, before. For all I know you’re some freaky alien imposter!”

“Janet can do whatever testing that will make you sure. I can tell you anything you like.”

“Then explain,” Jack barked. “Now, _Daniel_.” Sam glanced between them, teeth worrying her lower lip. Teal’c remained stoic at her side, but it was enough to know that he wanted answers as well.

Daniel hesitated, but nodded before Jack could call him on it. “Alright,” he said. He dropped onto the grass, grimacing. Shedding the torn cuirass, he began, “It all started on my vacation to Paris…”

0o0o0o0o0

SG-1 stepped through the Stargate a good sixteen hours before their scheduled check-in time. As the gate shut down, Daniel glanced at his teammate’s expressions. The initial disbelief was gone (though Sam looked like she dearly wanted to run a dozen or two tests to find a more rational explanation) but they were still confused, he could tell. Immortality, the Game, it was a lot to take in, especially the way they had.

And the fact that he was now technically… 5,189 (with only 35 of those years belonging to their friend, no less) was probably not sitting well with any of them.

Jack’s expression was worryingly blank. He had agreed to fudge the official report, but only after a thorough examination and only if he told Hammond and Janet as well, and Hammond agreed that it was necessary. It was infuriating, and normally Methos would have considered nothing less than vanishing by that point. Daniel had point blank refused to say a word about other Immortals and the Game (which necessitated hiding Methos’ involvement and memories), but had agreed to let the General and Janet know specifically about him. When Jack had looked about to disagree, he pointed out that if the NID got wind of Immortals it was all over for them. The SGC could protect Daniel, but it couldn’t protect everyone else.

After that reluctant compromise had been reached SG-1 had walked in uneasy silence back to the ‘gate. Five hours, a shower, a hasty excuse to Janet for her troubles, and several examinations later and it still hadn’t been broken. Finally, sitting before the General and a confused Janet for their debriefing (with Daniel cleared of unfortunate alien toxins, diseases, machinery and Goa’uld), SG-1 started to explain.

Hammond and Janet sat quietly throughout the explanation, though not without throwing disbelieving glances at the archaeologist. Daniel simply borrowed Jack’s combat knife and cut his hand, causing Janet a mild heart-attack but proving his story as best he knew how.

“Frankly, sir, I’m not sure how I came by this ability. It might be something from my time as an Ascended, who knows? But you can understand that I’m a little leery of letting the NID hear of this.” Jack’s lips thinned at the lies but he didn’t otherwise show his displeasure.

Hammond nodded. “I can understand that, Dr. Jackson, and I can try to downplay this as much as possible. But these healing abilities of yours are going to attract some attention whether you want them to or not.”

It was Daniel’s turn to frown but he nodded regardless. Clearly Hammond had no intention of hiding things from his superiors, but there was little Methos could do about it. At the very least Immortals as a whole would remain undiscovered. And it was a damn good thing Jack had agreed to say nothing about his latest death.

“Thank-you, sir.”

“Go home, son, it’s been a long day. I’ll expect your reports tomorrow. Dismissed.”

Jack looked more thoughtful and less angry when they reached the elevators. As Teal’c disappeared to his on-base quarters, and Sam to her lab, Jack turned to Daniel. “We should talk,” he said simply. The linguist didn’t get Jack’s sudden change of heart, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Daniel glanced at him. “My house?” he suggested. 

Jack nodded, lips twitching slightly. “I’ll bring the beer,” he teased.

Daniel blushed. “Methos loves beer,” he muttered, embarrassed by his earlier poor acting.

Jack grinned. “He a hockey fan, by any chance?”

0o0o0o0o0

Methos tensed briefly as he felt two buzzes wash over him, relaxing when he felt one was MacLeod. Mac wouldn’t have anyone with him that he didn’t trust to be there. More importantly, he wouldn’t bring anyone he didn’t feel _Methos_ wouldn’t trust to be there.

Switching the car off and hopping outside he caught sight of a relieved Highlander. Joe and Amanda stood next to him, suspicious expressions on their faces. It hurt more than he thought it would, no matter how understandable it was. Masking his anxiety, he started up the driveway.

“Duncan MacLeod of the clan Macleod,” he called lazily as Jack pulled in next to him. “Amanda. Joe.” He casually acknowledged, causing them both to scowl.

“Daniel!” Jack eyed the three distrustfully. “Friends of yours?”

“Friends of Methos,” he clarified. “So, yes, I suppose they are.” He looked back at them. “Maybe.”

Mac chose to speak up then, slightly stunned. “Methos?” he asked.

Daniel supposed it was because he wasn’t usually so free with his name. But he trusted Jack; he wouldn’t say anything.

Methos wouldn’t have told him anyway. _‘Ugh. Do not think about that now.’_

Ignoring Mac’s question he shook his key-ring in the air, the metal clinking obnoxiously. “You all want to come inside or are we going to have this discussion out in the street?” he asked idly, shoving his way past them to open the door.

After they had all trooped inside and seated themselves on whatever clean surface happened to be available, Daniel gave the introductions.

“Jack, this is Duncan MacLeod, Amanda, and Joe Dawson,” he said. “Mac, guys, this is Colonel Jack O’Neill.” After a pause where no one moved or said a word, Methos raised an eyebrow. “How about a drink?” Without waiting to be acknowledged he disappeared into the kitchen, coming back with a case of Heineken.

He felt more than saw Jack’s twitch. “Since when do you drink?” he asked, probably trying to draw out more stories of Methos’ life. There hadn’t been a great deal of time to share before, so Daniel had only told SG-1 the basics (not that he was sure he could go much further – Teal’c, as former First Prime, might understand; but Sam and Jack?). 

The archaeologist almost answered honestly, but given that he’d told MacLeod that Methos couldn’t remember his formative years he figured that was a bad idea. Instead he shrugged with a vague, “Depends on who you’re asking.”

Joe interrupted before Jack could continue. “So, let me get this straight. You expect us to believe that you’re some kind of combination of the Old Man and Daniel Jackson?” he snorted. “Forgive me if I find myself incredulous.”

Methos cast him a serene look. “Think of it as something similar to the Light Quickening Darius experienced,” he replied. “It changed him, but he retained personality aspects from both himself and the Immortal who gave him that Quickening. But the memories I now have are also too vivid for this to be a Light Quickening, even if a mortal had the capability to take one.”

Mac nodded slowly. “He’s right,” he said gruffly. “His Quickening is identical to Methos’, which shouldn’t be possible either.”

“Neither is the fact that you can tell the difference,” Amanda remarked archly.

Daniel tilted his head. “Bordeaux,” he said simply, marveling that Mac hadn’t told her. Apparently he did have a sense of discretion after all. He saw Jack glance at him curiously from the corner of his eye but the colonel didn’t otherwise interrupt. “Besides,” he added, “you’ve seen more impossible things happen, Joseph.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

Watching through half-lidded eyes he replied in a casual tone, “Ahriman.”

He felt more than saw MacLeod flinch, but kept his gaze directly on the bartender, who sucked in a loud breath at the name. “Gimme one of those,” he ordered.

Methos nodded, taking that as acceptance, and passed him a beer. Now he just needed to convince Amanda and make sure Jack continued to play nice with everyone. ‘ _Lovely_.’ At that thought he handed Jack another Heineken, wondering if he should bring out the Scotch. They might need it before the night was through.

“Amanda, my dear, I never could thank you enough for trying to help me save Alexa… even at the cost of the stone Rebecca gave you.”

The thief’s eyes narrowed even as she relaxed marginally. It seemed she was willing to believe him for now, if not totally trust him. But she likely hadn’t done so before, either, and he knew she’d be watching him carefully. It made little difference as long as she didn’t decide to come after his head.

“So what now?” Mac asked softly.

Methos shrugged. “We get on with our lives. There is little else to be done, Highlander. I do not need to be saved, despite whatever honorable notions you doubtlessly brought with you.”

Mac sighed, taking that as a dismissal. As he started for the door he added, “We will see you again?”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he lied. With his job and the Highlander’s propensity for trouble they were more likely to lose their heads first, but it did no good to tell him that.

Mac nodded, reassured. Taking that as his cue, Joe left with him. Amanda shot Methos a measuring look before following them out.

Daniel finally turned to Jack, wondering what the man had managed to glean from their conversation. As uncharacteristically quiet as he had been, he had to have been analyzing his guests pretty thoroughly. That, more than anything, let Daniel feel reassured that their friendship would survive this. Jack wasn’t particularly protective of people he didn’t like.

After a long moment of silence Jack finally asked, “Who was Alexa?”

Smiling sadly Methos decided the truth wouldn’t hurt. There wasn’t much Daniel wouldn’t tell this man, and it made the ancient Immortal feel more open than he had in millennia. “She was my wife. My 68th, to be exact.” He paused, “Well, 69th if you want to go chronologically. Shau’ri would be my 68th.”

Jack choked on his beer. “I’m sorry,” he wheezed, “I could have sworn you just said you’d been married 69 times.” 

Daniel quirked an eyebrow at his flat disbelief. “What did you expect? Five thousand years of celibacy? Give me a break, Jack.”

“Well, no, but… _Jesus_ , Daniel.”

He couldn’t help it. Really, he couldn’t. “Yeah, met him too; with a couple of my companions. That night was _stellar_ if you know what I mean.”

Jack moaned. “No more revelations tonight, _please_.”

Methos stilled, knowing Jack couldn’t have possibly meant that in the way he was thinking. But their conversation already taking a slightly Biblical turn, it wouldn’t be such a stretch to tell him now. To sever all ties while things were still slightly uncertain between him and the rest of SG-1. It would be safer even, if he disappeared now before reinvesting himself in their relationships. ‘ _Too late. It’s already going to hurt you when they learn to hate you.’_

Instead, he lifted his beer and smirked. “Of course not, Jack. Wouldn’t want to overload you now, would I?”


	4. God's Champion

Lives Apart

Chapter Four: God’s Champion

The next few days settled into Daniel’s usual pattern of work, sleep, then… more work. It wasn’t that he minded the research (in fact he rather loved it) but even Methos had more of a social life than Daniel, and when you were a 5,000 year old man with trust issues and a heightened sense of paranoia, that was saying a lot.

In any case, the Immortal was perfectly willing to spend a night in the town just to see who was around. Whether just to have fun messing with people or to find actual companionship for the night was anybody’s guess, although in this case Methos was mostly doing threat assessment. It was long since a habit every time he went somewhere new, even if Colorado Springs was only new in the sense that he’d never actually cased the place before. So when Jack decided a team night out was a good idea he was more than happy to agree.

Just a quick survey of the town afterward to see where the trouble spots were, maybe a stop at a bar for a few drinks, and then he’d head home.

At least, that had been the plan. As unfortunate as it was, things rarely went according to plan around Daniel. First, the mini-tour had been put on hold, mainly because their night had ended up with a drink or two more than planned. Teal’c, as the only one who didn’t consume alcohol, was declared the designated driver.

Methos mourned the loss of a good opportunity to extort his friends of a little ‘gas money.’ Daniel blinked and almost grimaced. He would never have considered such a thing before…

Then Methos had absently noticed the oddly familiar man following him out. Passing it off as a casual acquaintance, he didn’t say anything to the rest of the team.

About six blocks later however, he was more than a little suspicious. The man had been tailing them discretely the entire distance.

“Hey, Teal’c, pull over at the park will you?”

“Is there something you require, Daniel Jackson?”

He hesitated. The man wasn’t an Immortal; he hadn’t felt a buzz at the bar. And what if it wasn’t Daniel he was after?

Teal’c raised an eyebrow, and Daniel gave in. “Someone’s been following us since we left the bar,” he said softly. “I’m not sure what he wants, but we shouldn’t lead him to our houses or the base.”

The alien nodded in solemn agreement. “Indeed. What of O’Neill and Major Carter?”

Glancing back at the two decidedly drunk Air Force officers, Daniel winced. “They’ll have to stay in the car. Whatever this guy’s planning it won’t be safe for them either way.” If they dropped them off, they’d be vulnerable there just as much depending on whatever it was their tail wanted.

Methos was grateful that his Quickening cleared toxins from his body at an accelerated rate. If it didn’t, he’d be just as drunk as the pair drooling in the back seat.

Teal’c efficiently drove into the small parking lot set aside for the park, and Methos took a moment to marvel at how good the alien was at anything he set his mind to learn. He’d _seen_ the man on the defensive driving course at the Academy.

Come to think of it, that might be something he should to look into…

Shaking his head, Daniel hopped out of the car, Teal’c following close behind, taking the time to lock it behind him. Their tail seemed to hesitate, probably hoping for a one-on-one confrontation, but eventually followed them outside.

Cool grass squelched under his boots. The freshly watered field would be treacherous if it came down to a fight, and he had no doubt that it would, for striding across the field was none other than Harold Cook.

“Methos,” the man hissed, hand fisted under his coat.

“Cook,” he returned. “Not an accident then? Come to finish the job you started in Paris?”

Teal’c’s eyes darkened with anger, but Daniel held up a hand to stop him from intruding.

“I don’t know how you manipulated your Quickening like this you bastard but you deserve to die!” Cook spat, drawing a gun from an inner pocket. It quavered in his grip.

“Do I also deserve to know why?”

“You already know, _Horseman!_ ” he steadied the gun. “You’re a traitor to the Watchers and a traitor to humanity!” Catching Daniel’s start of surprise he grinned viciously. “What? Did you think we didn’t know? We’ve known who and what you were since the incident in Bordeaux.”

Methos dipped his head, coming up with a cold smirk. “Oh? You think you can kill Death, then?” he purred. Ignoring Teal’c’s dark gaze he continued, “You think you can kill an Immortal, who for a thousand years made Death into an art form?

“You know, I don’t really think so.”

Startled, Daniel whipped around to where Jack and Sam stood bleary-eyed and quite clearly suffering from hangovers. It was all the time needed for Cook to fire. A sharp pain, and then no more.

0o0o0o0o0

Methos revived with a groan, clutching his head. The residual fuzzy-headache would last for hours, he knew. Being shot in the head always left him with that feeling.

“Whoops. Guess I was wrong,” Jack said casually, gun held loosely at his hip. Beside him, Sam grimaced, and even the Colonel looked like he was suffering some pain.

His gun didn’t have a silencer.

Glancing around, Daniel saw Cook lying a short distance away, a dark stain coating the grass beneath him. He met Jack’s eyes.

“So. Fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse? Gotta say, that’s not your usual style, Danny-boy.”

Methos could not believe he was being so flippant. “What…?”

Sam shot Jack a Look. “We talked about this a couple of days ago,” she said. “And we realized… well, five thousand years is a lot of history.”

“Not everything can be all sunshine and daisies in all that time,” Jack added. “Besides, you’re not him anymore are you? You’re also Daniel, and Daniel happens to be one of the most,” here he paused, apparently having to force the words out, “honorable, conscientious men I know.”

Daniel almost sniped back a comment about Jack using big words, but was still feeling too rattled, and the moment too serious. “Teal’c?” he asked, turning toward the dark-skinned Jaffa.

“I cannot hold you accountable for such actions when Death is no longer who you are, much as I am not First Prime of Apophis. My friend,” Teal’c said, watching him steadily, “what you are is something new. Who you are now should lay claim to neither Daniel Jackson’s and Methos’ accomplishments, nor their misdeeds.”

“It’s not that simple,” he murmured, both profoundly relieved and incredibly insecure. “Those memories make me who I am.”

“Is it not our experiences that do so? They are not yours. You have with you now the teachings of two great men, and follow them according to your will.” Teal’c seemed to consider something before adding, “Much like young Jack O’Neill is not Colonel O’Neill, merely has and uses his knowledge.”

Off to the side, Jack nodded his agreement. Sam shot him an encouraging look. Had they really discussed all of this without him?

“And you know what, Daniel?” Jack asked. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

Methos stared at his team for a long moment before smiling ruefully. “Somehow I’m always surprised that the young have so much wisdom to share.”

Teal’c cocked his head. “I believe we are the elders in this case. Are you not only a few months into this existence?”

Daniel laughed through the pounding in his skull. He didn’t know whether Teal’c was joking or not, but he supposed he was right. And, he reflected, it was good to be young again.

Jack snorted. “Yeah and it is _so_ past your bed-time young man,” he griped, gesturing to the stars shining overhead.

He groaned. “How about I take an aspirin instead? Did you really have to let him shoot me in the _head_?”

“Well, yeah. It just wasn’t right for you to have drunk that much without getting a hangover. Now we’re even.”

“...”

0o0o0o0o0

“I’ve found him,” the man said, staring down a photograph. Grey-tone eyes peered back up at him. It had taken a surprising amount of time and resources just to get an old photo from a newspaper clipping, but it was definitely the man he’d seen in Paris.

“What are you going to do about it?” A low voice asked in response. 

“What do you think? Methos’ Quickening is too powerful to stay in the Game. We have to get rid of him.”

“Nate, this Jackson guy’s all but classified himself. Why didn’t you take him out when Harry killed Methos? If we’re not careful we’ll have the whole goddamn Air Force on our asses.”

“I didn’t think Methos would die from being hit and I couldn’t exactly stick around, now could I? I thought Jackson was mortal. And if he’d seen me–”

“There’d be no less trouble then we’ll be in if the Air Force catches us.”

He growled. “Believe it or not, I do know how to be careful.” Giving his partner a look that dared him to argue he continued, “And the Air Force won’t be an issue. Now here’s what we’ll do…”

0o0o0o0o0

Violet blood pooled steadily onto the green earth. Thirdan slowly blinked red eyes up at the cloaked figure, before dropping them back down to the sword in his gut. His own blade, repelled by some mystical force, now pinned him to a tree.

"Daniel Jackson of the Tau'ri... a human who cannot die, who heals almost instantaneously."

Thirdan couldn't understand the strange language, but he knew two of the words spoken. The name of the God-Demon. What curse had he laid on his people, that these beings, so much like the Champion and his companions in appearance, would slaughter the entire Underground? His hearing faded in and out as he listened to the monster speak, praying that his fellows would reach the neighboring Underground in time.

"A perfect host..."

The last thing he saw was the slow, silent drip of violet on green.

0o0o0o0o0

Epilogue: Phoenix from the Ashes

0o0o0o0o0

No one at the SGC was quite sure what to make of it when Daniel seemingly spontaneously changed his name to Alexander. Hammond and Janet had looked at him oddly for days, neither of them quite understanding his reasoning. SG-1 just nodded their acceptance.

Alex quirked his lips wryly, feeling that if the son of Methos and Daniel were going to stick around for a while, he might as well use a name suited to his occupation.

‘Protector of Mankind.’ He rather liked it, and so long as no one bothered to look it up he could dismiss his small amount of arrogance in choosing the name.

“Da-Alex!” Jack called, frustrated. Just because he accepted it didn’t mean he was used to it.

Alex glanced up. Oh. He was late for their briefing. Grabbing a couple files he headed out the door, ignoring Jack’s exasperated glare.

He hadn’t heard from Mac or the others in months, and he was sure Amanda was still watching him carefully. Joe had definitely put a Watcher on him (something Marks, he thought; he’d probably see the man in the SGC sooner or later). And occasionally it seemed as though SG-1 were trying too hard for things to be normal. There were even still moments where he couldn’t quite tell who he was.

But…

Maybe things would never be quite the same. Maybe it didn’t really matter anymore. This was his life now.

It wasn’t perfect. Anubis was growing even stronger, the occasional Immortal would still pop up after his head, and he had to hide Immortals from the government while in the very heart of it; secrets within secrets. The threat of death and discovery was an ever constant. So maybe things weren’t normal, would never be.

But he had his friends’ acceptance.

He could live with that.


End file.
